I Can't Believe
by VictorianChik
Summary: When Colin runs away in protest of Mary's schooling, Mr. Craven finds himself caught between his ideals of family love and his dislike for his son's selfishness. Warning: discipline of a teenager and use of profanity. Takes place 7 years after the book.


AN: This story follows the 1987 film _Secret Garden_ in which Colin and Mary are not cousins, but their parents were just good friends. As a child I watched this version over and over again because Mary had dark hair and straight bangs, just like me. This story takes place seven years after the children find the garden and Mr. Craven returns. For those of you who haven't read Secret Garden, download it from google books and read it. It still is funny and charming, and Mary's stubbornness and Colin's selfishness are amusing and relatable, even for adults.

This story is written from the POV of Colin's father, Archibald Craven.

Thanks to Fawks Song for betaing.

SG&SG&SG&SG&SG&SG

Mary had been gone a month since Christmas. Colin had been gone for two days.

Now, granted, my lovely young ward, barely seventeen, had returned to her finishing school after Christmas while my errant son had just run away.

He had disappeared Friday evening and when he didn't show up for supper I assumed he had gone to bed in a temper. Ever since last year, when he was sixteen, he had declared that he didn't want servants checking on him at night, "especially that meddlesome Medlock," he had snapped. "I'm grown up. I can take care of myself."

Medlock, my ever trusty housekeeper, had been crushed. She spent a few evenings in my study, crying about how she was no longer needed. I had to convince a few servants to neglect their duties just so she would see their sloppy work and have someone to fuss after. Colin had developed a bad cold this past fall, and Medlock had returned to her duties as caretaker, watching over him with tireless attention.

Colin had recovered enough to enjoy Mary's Christmas visit. They spent every moment together, bundling through the cold Yorkshire air, whispering in corners, laughing over breakfast, and dancing together in the evenings while I showed my poor talents at the piano. They were very close to being in love, but since they were both seventeen, I saw no reason to encourage their courtship. I had breathed a sigh of relief when we watched her get back on the train, bound for London.

Colin had been despondent since then.

"I don't see why she has to go to school," he had complained. "I stay here with a tutor – why can't you hire a governess for her?"

"This is a poor place for her to learn manners befitting a lady," I had said. "You two were always traipsing over the moor, coming home covered in mud to ravage supper and romp around the manor. Much better that she should go to a finishing school for the next three years, and you should learn under a tutor here. You have summer and Christmas together – she was here nearly a month and she's coming back in late June for two months."

That had not appeased my son, and he scowled and groused about, until two days ago when he disappeared.

By Saturday afternoon, I had the servants searching the entire manor. I sent Martha out to talk to Ben about searching the garden. Mr. Bingham, Colin's tutor, had gone with them, more out of a wish to spend time with Martha than find Colin. Mr. Bingham had been with us for two years, and he spent every free moment watching after Martha, helping Martha, talking to Martha, and going around with a lovesick look on his face the rest of the time. I would have stepped in and told him that a learned tutor had considerable sway over a young housemaid and he best be careful, but I was too involved with Colin's irritable moods to have time for much else.

I had thought of taking Colin on a tour of the continent. I had taken both children to France when they were fifteen, and it had been a pleasant trip, save for Medlock's incessant letters about Colin's health. After taking care of him for so long, she could never see him as anything other than sickly. I finally had persuaded him to write her, which he refused until Mary helped him, and they spent hours in the hotel writing two sets of letters: one which told the truth and gave an accurate account of Colin's health and one which told pure lies in which Colin was on the brink of death or had contracted leprosy. I had paid careful attention to see that the second set of letters never was mailed, by accident or on purpose.

However, a trip with just the two of us would be different. I wasn't sure I could endure Colin's ill temper for months on end. He could be kind and sweet, generous and amusing, when he chose, and when Mary was about I never had much difficulty with him. But alone without her, he could be the most selfish, disagreeable boy I've ever had the ill fortune to meet.

I knew most of the blame rested on me for neglecting him for the first ten years of his life and leaving him to the care of servants who indulged his every wish, but I had tried to make amends in the last seven years. I traveled no more than a month out of the year, and I made sure we ate at least two meals together a day. I took the children to church, out on picnics, and into town to shop. Rather than shut myself up in my study at night, I had the children in there to read or play chess or laugh over stories in the newspaper.

I wasn't sure what effect Mary had on my boy, but she had ways of making him behave. Once when she had gone with Medlock and Martha for a week to shop for new clothes in upper London, right before we took the trip to France, Colin had been so out of sorts that I sent him to his room. For the last two days, he had sulked there, threatening to throw things at the servants if they got too close to him.

Mary had returned with an exhausted Medlock and giggling Martha, my ward all happy and bustling with the joy of having sixteen boxes of new clothes and four hatboxes. Upon hearing about Colin sulking, Mary had stomped up the stairs in a way only a fifteen-year-old girl could do and marched right into his room.

"You get off that sofa," she had ordered, "or I'll box your ears."

"Shan't," Colin had sulked. "You left and I was all alone."

She had stood right in front of him. "You get up or I'll give you the smacking of your life and then I'll never speak to you again. I'll go live with Dickon and his family and you'll never see me again."

"You wouldn't!" Colin had stood right up. "I'll have them drag you back."

"And I'd smack you again. Selfish people always get smacked. Now, I want you to come see what I got in London and then we can go check on the garden."

"I don't care about your silly dresses," Colin had complained as he followed her out. "And it's too dark to go out. And Father said that – Mary, come back."

She had burst into a mad dash down the hall and down the stairs, and I thought about telling her to slow down, but my son had chased after her, his bad mood forgotten.

But now she was gone, and we had driven ourselves to distraction hunting for my missing boy.

By Sunday morning, the whole manor was frantic, sleep-deprived, and nearing hysterics.

"What if he fell in the lake?" Medlock clutched her handkerchief. Martha stood beside her, patting the housekeeper's hand. Bingham stood beside Martha, patting her shoulders.

"I'm sure he didn't fall into the lake," I said.

"What if he got trampled by the moorland ponies?" Medlock dabbed at her eyes. "He was always trying to go up and pet them. Your brother encouraged his recklessness," this to Martha.

"Dickon made sure Master Colin was careful with the animals," Martha said.

"Yes, but Dickon's gone now," Medlock blinked and worked her mouth in a sad way. "Now that he's training for the war, miles away, and Miss Mary's gone, no one can look after Master Colin properly on the moor. He shouldn't be allowed outside alone. I blame you, Mr. Bingham, for neglecting him."

The tutor looked aghast and might have protested, but I nodded to him discreetly, signaling that I did not blame him as did my hysterical housekeeper.

"Colin is old enough to take care of himself," I said. "I doubt that he has come to harm. He's likely hiding to teach us a lesson."

"Sir, he misses Miss Mary," Martha said timidly. "It's not my place, but he's lonely without her, sir."

Medlock looked conflicted, and I could tell she was torn between her insistence that she could take care of Colin better than anyone and her wanting to tell me to bring Mary back straightaway.

"I know he does, but not everything can revolve around Colin," I said. "He has to learn once and for all that he can't have everything his way all the time. Just as your mother says, Martha, the world is like an orange, and no one gets the whole orange, but just a piece. It's time he learns that he can't demand the whole orange all the time. He's a child still, but he's seventeen. It's time for him to start growing up. He can't keep throwing these tantrums for no reason."

Medlock bowed her head, looking very worn and tired.

"Pardon me, sir," Martha said, always respectful, "but he did receive a letter from Miss Mary Friday morning. It's not my place, sir, but he's always upset after he gets letters from her because she's happy at the school. I know it's wrong, sir, but I've read some of the letters, and I can tell Miss Mary isn't as happy as she appears in the letters, but she tries to seem happy and look on the bright side. Miss Mary is acting as grown-up as she can, far better than she used to act by looking for the good in her situation, but she pretends to be happy and Master Colin can't bear for her to be that happy without him. He's just a boy so he doesn't understand, and I thought about telling him so, but it's not my place, sir."

She was keen, our young maid, and her subservient look and manner belied a sharp mind and eye for detail. With the right training and direction, she could take Medlock's place as housekeeper one day.

"You silly girl," Medlock snapped at her, "why didn't you tell him? He thinks she's deliriously happy and he's miserable here. If I had my way, you'd be stuck in the scullery."

"Wait a minute," Bingham protested, but Martha shook her head and kept comforting the housekeeper.

A noise sounded from the ground level, and we glanced down the grand staircase to see a maid running up the stairs. I couldn't remember her name – she was new and one of the seven housemaids the manor kept for cleaning, cooking, and upkeep.

"Mr. Craven," she ran up the stairs, grabbing at her cap when it started to slip, "Pitcher found Master Colin."

Medlock broke into a high laugh of joy, making her sound almost crazy.

"Where?" I asked.

"He was in the village," she said. "He had left the pub and was on the streets, and Pitcher got him to get in the coach but –"

"Get your hands off me!" Colin's loud voice roared through the manor.

All the servants waited for me to start down the stairs. I seldom use my cane these days, finding that exercise with children keeps my limbs from hurting and my hump from impeding my movement. It takes me a bit longer to move from one place to another than it does for the servants, but they waited until I started before following. Bingham was almost in step with me, close enough to grab my arm in case I showed signs of tripping. He also watched over Medlock and Martha who were right behind me.

Nearly reaching adulthood, Colin was almost my height. He still had his mother's haunting eyes, but his light hair had darkened. He was thin, but not gaunt, and he had a way of holding his shoulders that bespoke a life of having people wait on him and answer his every request.

That unfortunate trait was my fault, of course, as I had instructed the servants to give him whatever he wanted since the day he was born. I had expected him to die, just like his mother, and I couldn't bear the idea that I should come to love her child who would also die. Those ten years I never saw him except when he was asleep, and then when he had laid still in sleep, he had looked just like Lilias had in her coffin, cold and dead.

I had wanted to die all those years, too, but I had been too scared to end myself. Somehow I thought everything was dead then: dark, still, and cold.

But the boy that faced me in the bottom center of the grand staircase was far from dead or still for that matter. He pushed Pitcher, my reliable manservant, off him.

"Leave me alone," Colin snarled. "If I had wanted to come back to this mausoleum, I would have brought myself back."

Colin wore his everyday clothes – long trousers, collared-shirt, and wool sweater – but they were spattered with mud, ash, and spilled ale. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes were red from lack of sleep.

"We were worried, Master Colin," Medlock intervened. "You stayed out two nights."

"Shut up, Medlock," Colin told her.

I felt the first jolt at that moment. The boy was prone to outbursts of temper, but he had never been so rude to the housekeeper who had taken care of him since he was a baby.

"Colin, that is unkind," I reproved. "You shouldn't –"

"Don't tell me what I should and shouldn't do. I didn't see you for ten years, and then you think you can come back and tell me what to do? You took Mary away from me, and I'm bringing her back because she belongs here with me. She's mine, and she made me better, she and the garden. I'd still be on my back like a cripple if it was up to you."

The words burst out of him, and I wondered how long he had wanted to say them to me. Seven years is a long time to wait, but if there was one thing my boy could do well, it was harbor a grudge and use it as a reason to fly into a passion. Had Mary been here, she would have likely found some smart retort to fling in his face, but I didn't have the strength to blast my poor boy. My guilt overshadowed whatever he did, and I had no desire to embarrass him in the grand staircase where all the servants had gathered to witness our row.

"Colin, come into my study," I motioned to the door down the hall. We'll go talk for a bit."

"I'm done with talking to you, you hunchback," he said. His face was flushed red, and he had knotted his hands into fists by his side. "I want Mary back."

The hunchback comment was the second jolt, but I managed to ignore it. He never was able to control what he said when he flew into a temper. He would be repentant later, he always was. If Mary were here, she would have told him off. I remember her clipped tone distinctly: "Colin Craven, I will not speak to you again until you apologize for saying such awful things." And she wouldn't, pointedly ignoring him, even if he pitched a fit, until he came back and mumbled contritely, "I'm sorry, Mary." His apology was often accompanied by tears which he tried to hide, and Mary would wear her pinched expression for a few seconds until she nodded her acceptance and they were friends again.

But I didn't have the will to deliver the silent treatment, and I tried to reason with him. "Son, you have to be reasonable –"

"I do not! Everyone is telling me to be reasonable, and I won't! I won't. I'll scream this house down before I let anyone tell me what to do. Bring Mary back!"

"Please, sir," Medlock tugged on my arm, "please appease him. Just bring the girl back. It's the best for everyone."

I noticed that Colin didn't object when Medlock said something he agreed with. Instead, my son stood, arms crossed, looking like someone who was about to get his way and was very pleased about the fact. It was disagreeable and I felt inclined to protest just so he wouldn't look so sure of himself. It must be what Mary found so distasteful because the more Colin tried to get his way, the more obstinate she became. He could coax and plead her into acceptance, but he couldn't bully or shout her into anything.

Really she was the best thing that ever happened to this whole place.

"No," I told my housekeeper quietly, "Mary stays at school, and no amount of shouting will bring her back."

The smug look slipped from Colin's face, and he braced himself to unleash his temper. "If you won't do it, I'll go to London myself and bring her back."

That was doubtful as my son, smart boy that he was, wasn't exactly practical when it came to things like train schedules, maps, and money. He was better at imagining things and creating stories and finding beauty where other people saw ugliness. In France, I had only let him tour without me if Mary was with him. I knew he was safe with her, with her keen sense of direction and a pocketful of coins to buy food and rides back to the hotel.

"They're not going to let you into a ladies' boarding school," Bingham said, trying to be helpful.

Colin's face darkened. "You shut up, too."

"That's enough," I told him. "Mary isn't leaving, and you know if you tried to get her to leave, she wouldn't go with you. It's time you learn to rely on yourself and not make everyone else miserable because you're unhappy. You're being too selfish."

For minute, I thought he might relent. He was a good boy for the most part, and I knew he loved me and loved Mary, and maybe if we could have gotten him upstairs into a bath and bed, he would have woken up later in a better mood. He might have sat in my study, eating a proper dinner and talking to me about how he felt, and I would have listened. We could come to an agreement about going on a trip, and I would have packed my son, Medlock, Bingham, Martha, and myself off to Italy for a few months with the promise that Mary would come visit us in the summer.

But Colin did not relent. He straightened up and took one step towards me. "Fuck you, Father."

The grand staircase went completely silent. All the servants – Medlock, Bingham, Martha, Pitcher, and the dozen or so other people watching us – froze. No one made a sound.

Colin was panting hard, staring me in the eye, daring me to respond to that.

It was the third and final jolt, the last bit of shock I needed. In that moment, the sick, poor, neglected child disappeared entirely, and I saw the young man in front of me for entirely what he was. He was my son; he could be a very good boy if he wanted, but at the moment, he was pure disobedience, insubordination, and ingratitude.

"Pitcher, Bingham," I said in a calm voice that came from somewhere outside of myself, "please take Master Colin and bend him over the table there," I motioned to the rectangular table in the center of the room.

Colin opened his mouth, but I went on.

"Martha, please go to my study and bring me down the junior cane on the top shelf of the wardrobe. Come back as quickly as you can."

"You wouldn't," Colin had gone as white as a sheet. "You wouldn't dare."

I nodded to my manservant and the tutor. Both men went and caught my son by the arm. I expected Colin to throw a tantrum, but he stared at me.

"Father? Father, I didn't mean – I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

It was one of the rare times I had ever heard him apologize to me, but he was past simple "sorry's" in my book. Martha was already headed for the study, and Pitcher and Bingham had Colin by the elbows and shoulders, gently herding him towards the table.

I moved with them, my face resolved and my intentions clear. It was time to put a stop to Master Colin's antics.

Colin actually let them turn him towards the table, and they bent him down, but the moment his chest hit the smooth wood, he launched into a fit.

"No!" he writhed, trying to get up. "No, I won't be caned. No, you've no right to touch me. Get off me, you brutes. If you don't let me go, I'll run away from here forever."

He put up a good fight, but Pitcher and Bingham kept him down.

"Quiet down, Colin," I said, surprised at the strength and fortitude of my own voice, "or you'll get two dozen instead of a dozen."

"A dozen," he screeched. "I can't take that many. No, no, no, no –"

"You should have thought about that before you said that to me."

Martha appeared by my side, offering the cane with a trembling hand. I took it, feeling the weight of it in my hand. I had not held it since I had been around Colin's age when my father used to send me to fetch it so he could use it on me. Despite my twisted back, my father never hesitated to discipline me, reasoning that if I was healthy enough to cause trouble, then I was healthy enough to pay the consequences. At the time I had disagreed with his logic, but now I felt the truth of that statement. And really, there was nothing wrong with Colin as his back was straight and only twisted now because he was trying to get up off the table as Pitcher and Bingham held him in place.

"A full dozen, my boy," I swished the cane through the air.

In no possible situation would I ever swing the cane through the air that hard onto my son, but he didn't know that, and my motion had the desired effect. Colin went still.

"Father," his voice was weak, "please don't cane me."

"Too late."

"Please," there was more of a tremble in it, "send the servants away."

"Had you come to my study when I asked, we would be doing this in private," I said, amazed at my quiet power in front of the boy. "But you refused, you shouted at me, you swore at me in front of all the servants. They stayed up trying to find you, and you were utterly unrepentant in acting so terrible. Pitcher, Bingham, hold his arms, but step to the side."

They moved away, keeping a hand on each of Colin's wrist. I couldn't imagine what he was feeling, but at the moment, I didn't particularly care. I felt tired and worn out after worrying about him, and his selfishness had to be stopped.

"You don't have to keep count, but you have a dozen coming."

"Sir," Medlock protested, "remember he's weak and frail."

Colin twitched, and I wondered if he was torn between agreeing with her in asking for leniency and insisting he wasn't weak or frail. But he didn't say anything which I took as a good sign.

I put a hand on his back , feeling the strong muscles over bone, and I whipped the cane down.

Most of the servants flinched at the noise. Colin jumped under my hand, hissing.

"Ow, that hurt," he said.

I didn't reply. I swished the cane down again, whacking half an inch below where I had previously hit his behind. My back twanged slightly, aching from the swing of my arm, but I reasoned that I could get through the uncomfortable movement. Other men could cane their sons without pain, but my hunchback condition made the action difficult. I didn't mention this; I swung again.

Colin actually stomped his foot at the third. "Stop, Father, stop!"

I hit him a fourth time. "You think about what you said to me. If I ever hear those words come out of your mouth again, I will cane you every night for a week."

"I'm sorry it was" – THWACK! – "Ow! An accident. I didn't mean to say it. Really, I didn't."

"Then you need to work on what comes out of your mouth," I told him.

Another swat, and he said with a voice full of tears, "I know. I'm sorry. I miss Mary, and I was angry at you for sending her away."

"You need to control your anger. You need to control your temper. You are seventeen – that's too old to act like a spoiled brat. You scream at the servants, you irritate your tutor, you snap at the housekeeper. Why are you acting so awful?"

"Because I'm lonely," his voice broke. "Mary's not here and Dickon's not here and I don't like feeling sad."

Medlock put a hand over her mouth and I could see her eyes fill with tears. Martha stepped beside her to comfort her, and the older woman leaned on the girl for support. I kept swishing.

"If you feel bad, you tell someone or ask for help – you do not take out your bad feelings on all the servants. And if you can't have things your way, you learn to deal with them. The world does not revolve around you, you are not the most important person here, and you don't ever, ever speak to me in that way."

I swished the cane harder, and Colin cried out.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I could hear the tears in his voice. "Please, Father, I'm sorry."

I had four more strokes to deliver. I laid them down, moving down half an inch for each, reaching the top of his thighs when I was done. The last one I made the hardest, and he screamed out loud.

A part of me felt appeased by the caning, but part of me was still angry. I could feel my heart racing, and I felt sick, and I wanted him out of my sight. I wanted all the servants gone, letting me sit in darkness and peace.

I realized that I had lifted my hand from his back, but when I put it back down, I could feel him shaking. I looked down and saw that the men had let go of his arms and he had moved them under his head, and he was crying into his arms as he kept shaking. He didn't look strong or arrogant or proud or disobedient – just small and crying.

"It's all right, Colin," I put a hand on his shoulder. "You're going to stand up and apologize to everyone. Then you'll go upstairs and clean up, eat, and go to bed. Then we'll put this whole thing behind us."

His face was red and streaked with tears as he rose, and he stared down at the floor. "I'm sorry I was inconsiderate," he said.

No one moved, and I hesitantly placed my hand on his arm to steady him. That comfort seemed his undoing. His face screwed up tight before crumbling into more tears. He raised a hand to cover his face, and Martha left Medlock to rush forward.

"There, don't cry," Martha petted his hair though he stood taller than her. "We still love you."

"Yes, there's a good lad," Pitcher encouraged. "All forgiven."

"You took that bravely, like a true soldier," his tutor assured him, putting a hand on Colin and the other on Martha.

"Dear boy," Medlock came over to cry over him, and soon we were surrounded by an eager crowd of servants to comfort and soothe the errant heir. I wasn't sure if that was what Colin needed, but he soaked it up as his tears disappeared.

Somehow they got him upstairs, Medlock insisting she would get him right to bed.

I went back in my study and put the cane up. I sat in my study and tried to come to grips with the reason why I was still angry. I had punished the boy, and I should be ready to forgive him. My father had never held a grudge once a punishment was delivered. He had nodded to me, told me all was well, and then we had dinner as if nothing had ever happened.

But I was shaking and upset, furious that Colin had pushed me so far, had forced my hand that way. I hadn't wanted to punish him – I hated punishing him when he looked at me with his mother's eyes. I would have died before I touched my lovely wife, and the fact her spirit seemed to haunt our house and her garden made my actions ever more disagreeable.

I sat in my comfortable chair, resting my aching back, and tried to ignore the prickles of pain. I let my mind wander free, anything to help counter the pain of my hunched back. Every so often I would venture into Colin's room, when he was out, and look at the picture of his mother over the mantel. Lilias would look back at me with clear eyes and smiling lips, her beauty overwhelming.

I missed her so much.

I let my exhaustion sweep over me, and when the mist carried me off to dreams, I let it take me. We were back in the garden, her garden, and I stood in the grass, my back straight without pain.

She was sitting on the swing, her long fingers trailing over the long ropes. "Archie," she laughed, "Come sit beside me."

"I'm dreaming," I sat beside her and looked deep into her eyes. "I wish I dreamed of you more often. You don't come to me often enough, Lilias."

"You don't need me as much. You can keep living without me."

"I hate you for leaving me. I hate you for falling off that swing and dying."

"I do, too," she nodded as she looked back at me. "You told me not to get on the swing, but I didn't listen. I should have listened to you. You are a wise, wise man."

"I just caned your son."

"You caned our son," she corrected. "And I've been gone so long, he's more your son than mine. Why did you do it?"

"He frightened me and swore at me and kept yelling."

She laughed. "Oh, he can be horrible when he wants. Why are you still angry?"

"I don't know," I looked away.

"Archie, you're a terrible liar," she said. "You know why you're angry. That's why you let him go upstairs without talking to him. You know exactly why you're angry."

I gripped the end of the swing hard. "He's your son, Lilias. He should be like you. He should be sweet and laughing and kind, not selfish and disagreeable."

She laughed again which maddened me. "I was never perfect. I used to be selfish all the time, Archie. Don't you remember? The doctors said I wasn't healthy enough to have a baby – I made you give me one anyway. I ran the manor the way I wanted, regardless of whatever you thought. I went into that garden that summer day when you and the doctors and the servants said I should rest for the coming baby. If Colin's selfish, he comes by it very honestly."

I couldn't bring myself to look at her. "He needs to be better, Lilias. He's all I have left of you."

Silence.

I looked around, but she was gone.

I stood up off the swing, looking around the garden. She was still there, but I couldn't see her.

"Father?"

I blinked, sitting up in my chair. The room had grown dark, and the fire emitted a dull glow. Colin stood in the doorway, wearing a robe over his pajamas.

"Come in," I motioned to him. He shut the door and I turned on a side lamp, a new convenience since we had electricity put into most rooms two years ago.

"What time is it?" I asked, not looking directly at him.

"About six. Most everyone is asleep, but I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep."

I tried to sit up, but my back hurt so badly I winced.

"Wait, Father," Colin was by my side in a heartbeat. He helped ease me up and put a pillow behind me. "Let me get you some pain medicine and some food."

"I'm all right," I tried to wave him off, but he went to the tray where the medications were kept and searched until he found the right bottle. He shook out two pills and brought them back to me with a glass of water.

"Take these and you'll feel better," he said.

He was such a different boy that I almost thought I was still dreaming. I swallowed the pills.

"I'll get some food," he started for the door.

"No, in a minute. Come sit and talk to me."

He sat down slowly in the chair across from me, his face tightening for a moment.

"Sore?" I asked.

"Yes," he ducked his head for a minute. "You did a number. There are twelve red stripes across my rear. Medlock wanted to bandage me up with cloth and cream, but I told her that I could do it. I had to bar the bathroom door to keep her from charging in. I'm too old to have her taking care of me."

I nodded in agreement.

"Martha and Bingham talked to me, too," Colin absentmindedly traced the arm of the chair. "Martha kept saying how worried everyone had been, and Bingham told me I finally got what was coming to me. He was stern with me and said I needed to be more considerate because you're not always feeling well."

"Where did you go for two days?" I asked. "We were very worried, son. Medlock thought you had drowned in the lake."

Colin looked torn between crying and smiling. "I meant to go to London to find Mary. But I got to the train station and the train had already left for the day. It was going to come the next morning so I slept there, but in the morning I didn't have enough money. I wanted to come home to get more money, but then I heard from a farmer's child that everyone was looking for me and I didn't want to face you so I went to Thwaite. I ate in a pub and slept there, but I had no money left and they said I had to leave. Pitcher found me wandering the streets."

I wanted to ask him how he could have been so foolish and ill-prepared, but I just said, "Mary would have taken enough money and looked at the train schedule before she left."

"We have a train schedule here?"

I motioned to the desk where newspapers were stacked up. "It's in the newspaper every day."

Colin scowled. "I didn't know that. And I didn't have enough money anyway."

"What about your allowance?"

"I can't keep track of it. It's scattered about my room. I hide it, then can't find it."

"Mary used to keep hers in a wooden box that locked with a key."

"So Mary would have made it to London but I can't?"

"Believe me," I said in a serious voice, "if you had gone to London and tried to free Mary, you'd have gotten more than a dozen. I'd have put you under house-arrest with two servants to watch you around the clock. What do you know about London besides how to get to the gardens and the museums?"

"I could have learned to navigate. I'm not helpless," the old stubbornness had returned, but his expression amused rather than angered me.

"You'd have sent Medlock to her grave," I said.

He actually smiled at that, in a guilty, accepting sort of way. "She worries too much. Can't we send her some place where she can rest and not fret?"

"No, son," I leaned further back on the pillow as my pain began to dissipate, "she's our concern. That's what happens when you have people live in your house and take care of your family. It'd break her heart if we sent her away. Or Martha. Or Bingham now, too."

Colin's mouth twitched mischievously. "I caught them kissing in the library Thursday. They pretended they weren't doing anything, but I saw the way Martha's cap nearly fell off her head and Bingham walked stiffly for a whole hour."

"Colin," I mildly reproved.

"They shouldn't be kissing in public if they don't want me to notice."

"I daresay they thought the library was a fairly safe place to show affection. I hope you aren't tormenting them unnecessarily."

"No more than usual," he smirked.

He fell quiet for a few seconds and gazed off into the fire. As always, he seemed to be thinking thoughts older than his years, a reminder of the ten-year-old he had been who embraced the magic of the garden, the magic of living and being alive.

"Are you still angry at me?" he asked suddenly, jarring me out of the quiet.

"Not anymore," I answered honestly. "Though for a second there, I couldn't believe you said that. Your mother's own boy, looking just like her – where did you learn such an awful word?"

"I heard it in Thwaite," he said. "There was a bit of a fight last night, and it was said a few times. Someone had to explain what it meant, but it really is the worst word I know."

"Don't you ever use it around Mary or I'll thrash you again."

"And you think Mary wouldn't clean my clock if I ever said that to her? I once called her a prat and she dumped a pot of tea on my lap . . . and smiled while I howled."

I couldn't help chuckling at the thought of Mistress Mary looking so prim while she acted so vicious.

"I really do miss her," he propped his chin up on his hand to look at me.

"I know you do, but you have to learn to be a whole person without her."

"Like you did with Mother?"

This time I felt a mild jolt, but I knew I had to be honest with him. "Yes, exactly. I loved your mother so much that I was nearly destroyed when she died. But no one ever told me that I would need to know how to live without her. I relied on her for everything – happiness, joy, love, companionship, comfort, friendship, everything. I never bothered to take care of myself – I left that up to her, and once she was gone, I felt nothing but darkness."

"But I'm still here, Father," Colin leaned forward, worried. "And Mary, too, and Medlock and Pitcher and Martha. We all love you. Mother would want you to be happy with us, even if she couldn't be here."

The sudden ache in my chest had nothing to do with my usual pain, and I could barely say, "Thank you."

Colin stood and extended a hand. "Come, let me help you upstairs. You'll feel better if you sleep in your own bed for a while."

As we walked upstairs, he braced himself against me though I did not feel in danger of falling.

"You can be quite helpful when you want," I commented.

He nodded, slightly reluctant to admit he could be good.

"Tomorrow you better be well-behaved for your lessons. Bingham said you were surly this past week."

Colin made no comment, but he didn't let go of me.

"You act accordingly," I told him, "or it will be trouble."

"I wouldn't let Bingham cane me," Colin said with confidence.

"No, I was thinking of letting Mistress Mary have a few swipes at you when she comes home for the summer."

Colin's face drained of color. "No, Father, please. You wouldn't tell her what happened. You wouldn't. I'd just die."

"No, I wouldn't tell her," I assured him. "And there'll be no talk of dying in this household. Though I still can't believe you said something so awful."

"And I can't believe you caned me," he replied. The color was back in his face, and I knew his spirit would be back soon, probably along with his temper and his enthusiasm for everything alive.

He wasn't that bad of a boy.


End file.
